


Borderlands

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon era AU. When Arthur is separated from his knights by a mysterious fog on the Mercian border, he finds himself trapped in a place that seems to balance between dream and reality. To regain his freedom he must put his trust in one of Lord Bayard's closest men - a man who calls himself Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borderlands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/gifts).



> Written for the Merlin Holidays exchange. Thanks to Venivincere and Marguerite_26 for their beta help!

The fog rolls in so suddenly they don't see it until they're lost in it.

They're patrolling the Mercian border, jittery with nerves under the calm surface. They have just resumed their task after a break when Arthur turns in the saddle and finds he can no longer see the others, although he can still hear the jingling of bridles and a horse snorting.

"Leon!" he shouts. "We must try and keep the group together!"

It's like trying to see through milk. Arthur reins in his horse. "Leon?"

There's a trample of hooves some distance behind him and he hears someone swearing before at last Leon's voice comes out of the whiteness, from further away than it ought to be: " _Arthur!_ "

Then silence falls, and Arthur's heart is slamming in his chest, because Leon only ever loses the honorifics to use Arthur's name when there's danger.

"Leon?" he shouts again and tries to turn Hengroen around, but the horse stands rooted to the spot, tense under him. "Come on," Arthur says impatiently, "what's the matter with you?"

When he dismounts, the horse's eyes are wild and white-rimmed. "Something frightened you," he says slowly, running his hand down Hengroen's shiny neck. "All right, you stay here if you like, but I have to try and find the others."

He means to double back and follow the border north the way they came, but it's like running into an invisible wall. Instead he finds himself forced south and west, and forced to keep moving - whenever he stops to get his bearings, the fog closes in on him until he can barely breathe, and he has no choice but to get moving again for the pressure on his lungs to ease. But the most frightening thing is the silence, and the fact that he has now lost all the others, including his mount. When he calls Hengroen's name into the whiteness, no familiar nicker meets his ears.

 _This is sorcery_ , Arthur thinks grimly, because it can be nothing else. No natural fog in the world has the power to force a man's steps down a path he does not wish to take. _So the magic is oozing across the border now. What could Bayard have been thinking, to lift the ban on magic?_

Arthur moves across grassland and down slopes, through a copse of trees that he can't see, only identify by the rustle of leaves, and through a thicket where he scratches his cheek painfully on thorns. Just as he lifts his hand to touch the hot, stinging wetness on his skin, he stumbles out of the thicket, trips over something and lands heavily on all fours. There's a flat slab of stone under his hands and knees. A doorstep.

The fog is so dense he can barely see the door. Arthur gets to his feet and runs his fingers over it, needing his other senses to compensate for the lack of vision. The wood seems solid and sturdy, nothing like the rickety doors in the lower town of Camelot. This cottage must belong to someone better off than that. Perhaps he's come to a small farm, but there's no smell of animals. The door swings open soundlessly at his knock.

"Hello?" he calls into the small, dark hall.

His voice rings loud in the silence. There's no answer.

Cautiously, Arthur steps inside and looks around. The cottage seems small enough but has a flagstone floor and furniture crafted by a skilled hand. To his right a kind of parlour opens up, and to his left he sees a small, book-lined room with a writing table by the window. There are two more doors to his left, and through the doorway straight ahead, at the end of the hall, he glimpses a kitchen. Everything is very still and quiet. The castle kitchens at Camelot are always alive with heat and noise, with the cooks shouting and laughing and banging pots about, maids giggling and running, buckets slopping and fires roaring. Here, there's nothing.

There's something strange about the house. Something about the atmosphere feels grey and flat, dead; perhaps it's the absence of sounds combined with the fog making the windows milky and opaque. Even the light is grey. It feels as if he accidentally took a step outside the border of reality when he stumbled out of the copse.

Behind him the door closes with a small, soft noise and he whips around, but there's no one there. When he turns back, a man is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Arthur's hand flies to his sword. The man is very still against the light, a tall, cloaked silhouette with his feet slightly apart.

"There's no one here," he says.

Arthur can't see his face against the light but his voice is young and soft.

" _You're_ here," Arthur says. He had meant it as a dry, sarcastic comment but it comes out low and tense while his fingers tighten around the grip of his sword.

"I don't live here," the man says. "I only just arrived. The house is empty save for the two of us. Were you forced here by the fog?"

 _Forced_.

"Yes."

"I lost my companions and couldn't turn back to look for them," the man continues in a low voice. "My feet wouldn't take me in the direction I wanted to go - they took me here, and now I can't leave."

A chill runs down Arthur's spine. "What do you mean, you can't leave?"

"Try the door behind you," the man says. "Try the windows. We can't get out."

Arthur reaches out and lifts the door latch, careful not to turn his back on the man. The door won't budge. When he goes into the parlour and tries the window, it doesn't open.

"It seems we're trapped," says the man from the doorway.

"You seem very calm about it!" Arthur snaps.

The man enters the parlour and Arthur sees his face for the first time. He's young, some years past twenty perhaps, with pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes, finely sculpted cheekbones and a mouth much too pretty for a man.

"Well, I don't _like_ it," he says, "but while I'm not happy about it, I believe we need cool heads to get out of here, not muscle and sword."

Arthur glares at the man. His cheekbones may be a work of art but his ears are ridiculous.

"I see you're wearing the cloak of the Mercian court," he says. "So you're one of Bayard's men?"

Apart from the blue cloak, the man is in black breeches and a tunic of fine, tightly woven black linen, embroidered along the hem and around the neckline with gold and blue, and his boots have soles so soft he moves without a sound.

When he smiles, his whole face brightens and his eyes sparkle in the strange light. "Yes, I am, and I don't need to ask who _you_ are. You're Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot."

Arthur frowns. "You seem familiar," he says slowly. "Have we met before?"

"Met is perhaps an overstatement, but we've spent some time in the same room." Again, a quick smile. "I had the honour of visiting Camelot two years ago. I'm Merlin; I was part of the Mercian delegation at the peace treaty negotiations."

Arthur nods slowly. He remembers now, a little hazily. There had been a good fifteen men in Bayard's delegation, the atmosphere had been tense and Arthur too caught up in politics to dwell on anything but the task at hand. But he does remember noticing the man's blue eyes and the way Bayard had obviously valued his counsel.

"I was sorry to see the negotiations fail," Merlin says.

"Yes," Arthur replies curtly.

He had been sorry too, but he doesn't want to elaborate on the subject. Even if he doesn't agree with all of his father's decisions he must stand by them or at least appear to do so. A peace treaty had seemed to him like a very good thing indeed, and he had pushed and pleaded with Uther in their private talks, but Uther had refused to back down. As Lord Bayard had proved equally adamant on other points, the negotiations had stranded and the Mercian delegation had returned home.

Some time later, news had reached Camelot that Bayard had lifted the ban on magic in Mercia. There had even been an unconfirmed rumour that he had appointed a court sorcerer. Uther had responded by sending patrols the border, and since then their kingdoms have been watching each other like hostile dogs, waiting for the command to attack.

Arthur sits down on the sheepskin-covered bench by the window and looks out at the thick fog. It had been a great achievement to get Uther to agree to negotiations, and the fact that they'd gathered around the table at all had made Arthur hopeful.

In all honesty, he's surprised that Camelot hasn't yet found itself under siege. With magic on their side, Mercia has the upper hand.

"Well, there's no hope for a treaty now," Arthur says, turning his eyes back to Merlin. "My father will never agree to further negotiations."

"No," Merlin agrees quietly and sits down opposite Arthur. "It's a pity. Kingdoms doing trade with each other are less likely to start a war."

Arthur frowns. That had been one of his own arguments for getting his father to agree to negotiations.

"So, what do we do next? About this, I mean." Merlin waves a hand towards the room. "Should we search the house and see if we can find a clue, or even a way out?"

"That sounds like a plan," Arthur says and gets up from the bench.

It's ridiculous, wearing chainmail and sword in this small space - he feels like a clanging, cumbersome giant as he makes his way through the tiny hall. He doesn't hear Merlin follow him, but when he turns around Merlin is so close that he needs to catch himself up not to collide with Arthur.

"You know, that's really creepy," Arthur says, "you moving so silently."

"I don't! It's you - you sound like a walking armoury."

Arthur snorts. "Well, help me out of this then."

He's aware of making himself vulnerable as he unclasps his cloak and yanks off his vambraces, but it's both a token of trust and a concession. As far as he can see, Merlin is unarmed. From the look in Merlin's eyes as he helps remove pauldron, gardbrace and chainmail shirt, the gesture is noted.

Arthur rolls his shoulders and looks around the kitchen.

"This house gives me the strangest sensation," he says, feeling light as always when he's rid of the chainmail. "Sort of floating - like it's not quite real, like it's a dream. You seem real enough, though," he adds. "I don't think I've dreamt _you_ up."

Merlin gives him an odd smile. "I don't think you could if you tried." The smile fades and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. "No," he adds grimly, "I don't believe that _you_ are dreaming up this place, but I do think _someone_ is."

Arthur frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I don't think the house is real," says Merlin flatly. "I think it's been conjured up specifically for us."

The thought makes Arthur shudder. Even if he's guessed, it's terrifying to have his suspicions put into words. "So you believe this is sorcery."

"Yes, I do. And I for one could bear to know the reason we've been brought here. Don't you find it strange? Why the two of us?"

"It could be chance. Coincidence."

"I don't think so. Just look at the way we got here. Something, or someone, directed our steps."

Arthur pushes his chainmail out of the way and sits down. "Well," he says, "you're one of Bayard's trusted men and I'm the Prince of Camelot - so it's politically motivated, then? What are we meant to do? What's meant to happen?"

Merlin shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Something to do with the stranded negotiations - someone wants us to reach an agreement...?"

"But why us? Your father and Lord Bayard will still be the ones making the decisions. Someone wants us out of the picture? But this is so elaborate - why go to all this trouble?"

Arthur gets up and pushes the lid off the water barrel. "Do you think this is safe to drink?"

"I drank from it when I came in," Merlin says, "and I'm still here."

"Wonderful," Arthur mutters, scooping up water in his cupped hand. "At least there's _something_ here that hasn't been touched by sorcery."

For some reason that makes Merlin laugh.

"Let's look through the house," he says. "If I take the parlour and the kitchen, will you take the rooms on the other side of the hall?"

Arthur starts with the book room and continues with the two small, adjacent bedrooms. None of the windows open; nothing of interest is found. Everything looks neat and impersonal, not lived in. Arthur is sweating in his padded jacket. The mere idea of being trapped sets his teeth on edge, and the notion that they're held here by magic, that the house isn't _real_ , makes it even worse.

When they meet back in the hall and exchange a questioning look, Merlin shrugs.

"Nothing," he says. "There's a back door but it won't open. Oh, off the kitchen there's a small room with a very nice-looking copper tub. I wouldn't mind a bath later."

"I wouldn't mind _getting out_ ," Arthur grumbles, wiping sweat from his face. When did it become so stifling hot in here? "You still think the house is created by magic?"

"I know it is," Merlin says. "I can sense it; I can sense the magic at work. I feel the structure of it."

It takes Arthur a second to process the meaning of his words. Then his sword is out of its sheath and the point pressed to the underside of Merlin's chin before the man can react, forcing his head up at an uncomfortable angle.

"One of Bayard's men!" Arthur hisses, hot with anger. "You have magic. You're Bayard's _sorcerer_."

This is even worse than he thought. For all Arthur knows, Merlin could be the one casting the spells to trap them here, and the realisation that Bayard had the insolence to bring a sorcerer into Camelot for the peace treaty negotiations makes Arthur see red.

Merlin is looking at him from underneath long black lashes, unfazed.

"Let me point out three things, Arthur Pendragon," he says, still with his chin tilted up by Arthur's sword. "First, that if I had wanted to harm you in any way, I'd have done so already - I've had plenty of time and opportunity. Secondly, that I could blast you across the room before your sword point even pierced my skin. Thirdly, if you're planning to kill me, you should know that you'll probably need me to get out of here at all."

Arthur stares at him with his jaw set and nostrils flaring, his breath coming fast. He has no idea what to think. Perhaps this is the worst thing about magic - that if you don't have it, there's no knowing anything. You're helpless and forced to rely on trust, on a benevolence of which there are no guarantees. _This alone makes my father right in prohibiting magic in Camelot._

He gives Merlin a dark look and lowers his sword, deliberately slowly. The air seems to be sucked from the room. Merlin shows no signs of anger or resentment, only meets Arthur's gaze.

"I have no reason to trust you," Arthur says, his head suddenly spinning unpleasantly, "but I have no wish to kill you."

"I'm not the source of this," says Merlin, "if that's what you're thinking. What's the matter?"

His hand shoots out for support, because Arthur is reeling. The gloomy hallway swims before his eyes and Merlin's face is slipping in and out of focus in an alarming way.

"I feel very strange." His own voice seems to come from a distance. "What are you doing to me? What are you playing at?"

"Nothing," Merlin says, looking startled. "I promise you I'm not doing anything." He tilts his head and peers into Arthur's face. "You're very flushed."

"I'm all woozy," Arthur mumbles. Everything looks as if it's underwater and he feels weak; his knees begin to buckle.

"You need to lie down," Merlin says somewhere beyond his field of vision.

Arthur feels Merlin duck under his arm to take most of Arthur's weight, and they stagger into one of the bedrooms across the hall with Arthur leaning heavily on Merlin's thin frame. It's a relief to lie down on the narrow bed.

"Those scratches on your cheek," Merlin says, "how did you get them?"

"There were bushes," Arthur manages, fighting his dizziness, "there were thorns..."

"What did they look like?"

"Didn't see... very sharp."

It's difficult to speak. All his energy is drained out of him, his whole body aches and he is shuddering under waves of heat and chill.

"I tore my cloak on devil's blackthorn just before I found the doorstep," Merlin says from far off. His face is hazy and indistinct and Arthur can barely understand his words. "If that's what scratched you, you'll get a bad fever." When he puts his hand on Arthur's forehead, his fingers are cool and so unexpectedly comforting that Arthur leans into the touch without meaning to. "You're already burning up."

The touch of Merlin's fingers is the last thing Arthur remembers clearly. Everything becomes a blur. Tossing and turning, he drifts in and out of sleep; he dreams of swirling fog and dark houses where he stumbles around half-blind, calling for someone who isn't there or doesn't hear. He walks along the rocky shore of a grey, murmuring sea, desperately looking for someone he doesn't find. He runs through a dark forest to escape an enemy he can't see.

Now and then he surfaces into consciousness, his head throbbing in time with his pulse, his eyeballs hot and his skin sizzling, but as soon as he throws off the blanket he starts to shiver. There's Merlin leaning over him, pulling the blanket back up and pressing a cool, damp cloth to Arthur's forehead and neck, whispering things Arthur doesn't understand. He mutters and groans and sinks back into sleep, dreaming endlessly about people who turn their backs and disappear in the mist.

*

Next time Arthur opens his eyes, the fog outside is grey with dawn and the fire has gone out. His damp clothes are drying on his skin and he's shaking with cold under the blanket. When he props himself up on his elbows to look around for another blanket he finds Merlin curled up on the floor beside the bed. In the pearly light his skin is shimmering pale, and it looks like he fell asleep right where he sat. With a twinge of guilt Arthur realises that Merlin must have been up all night.

He rubs his hands over his arms, still shivering. The tunic feels rough against his fever-sensitised skin and he must have made a sound, because Merlin jerks awake.

"Oh, sorry, I fell asleep." He groans as he sits up and rubs a hand over his face. "How are you feeling?"

"So... cold," Arthur manages with chattering teeth.

Merlin gets up and returns with another blanket.

"Move," he says.

Arthur doesn't understand; his thoughts are disconnected and slow. "What?"

"Move," Merlin repeats.

When Arthur just looks at him in bewilderment, Merlin rolls him over on his side and climbs into bed behind him, pulls the blankets over them both and slides an arm across Arthur's waist. Arthur lies stiffly, blinking at the wall in front of him, but the wonderful warmth of Merlin's body and the extra blanket makes it impossible not to relax. Before Arthur falls asleep he thinks what a paradox it is, to lie here in the arms of a sorcerer and feel so completely safe.

*

When he wakes up for real it's afternoon, judging by the light, and he's alone in the bed. He is thirsty and weak and in desperate need of a bath, but his temperature seems to be back to normal.

Merlin is chopping vegetables at the kitchen table and looks up with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Good as new. Well, not really, but much better. Are you... cooking?"

"Well, I'm hungry and I assume _you_ don't know how to cook. Do you?"

Arthur stares at him. "I'm the Crown Prince of Camelot, Merlin," he says slowly, "not a peasant woman. _Of course_ I don't know how to cook."

Merlin grins; the knife dances over the chopping board. "Lucky one of us does, then. I'm making soup."

The word makes Arthur realise he's starving. His stomach rumbles. "I need a bath," he says.

Merlin throws the vegetables in a pot and reaches up for a bunch of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. "I'll heat the water for you." He gives Arthur a quick look. "If you'll let me."

"Let you?"

Puzzled, Arthur goes to inspect the copper tub. Well, it will certainly take a while to heat water for that, he thinks. Merlin ducks in through the doorway and the room seems very small with the two of them in it.

"I meant," Merlin says, "that I can do it with magic. If you'll allow me to."

Arthur looks up sharply and meets Merlin's eyes. There's an honesty about Merlin that he finds completely disarming, something open and straightforward that makes Arthur forget he's talking to a sorcerer. He has always thought of sorcerers as cagey creatures with their face in shadow, skulking around in the dark. Merlin seems to belong in light.

"Have you ever seen anyone perform magic?" Merlin asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "I've seen the _effects_ of magic - evil and destructive. You're making it sound so domestic, reducing it to nice, cosy stuff like heating bathwater."

"Magic can be all those things," Merlin says, "and so much more. You shouldn't make the mistake of thinking it's evil. People can be good or evil, but magic is neither. It just _is_ \- like nature. You don't call a river evil because someone drowned in it."

Arthur looks at Merlin and thinks he would make a very dangerous adversary - so reasonable, so convincing.

"Why are you asking my permission, anyway?"

"I know your views on magic. I don't want to use it in front of you without your permission."

Arthur swallows. "I've never seen anyone... cast spells or whatever it is you do."

"Is that a yes?"

A shiver runs down Arthur's back, of apprehension but equally of excitement. He realises he wants to see Merlin use his magic very much. "Yes."

"Magic can be beautiful," Merlin says.

Then three things happen at once that take Arthur's breath away: Merlin's eyes turn gold like those of a bird of prey, the tub fills with water, the water begins to steam. Arthur stares at Merlin. His heart is thundering.

"I - " he says, and it's all he can get across his lips.

Merlin smiles. "Get in, then." He nods towards the bath. "And if you don't object to more cosy, domestic magic, I'll clean your clothes as well."

 _If I can watch_ , Arthur wants to say. _If I can see your eyes glow golden again._ Magic can be beautiful, Merlin had said, and Arthur can't imagine Merlin wanting to hurt him. He wonders if Merlin has put a spell on him, one that lulls him into a false sense of security.

He quickly divests himself of his clothes and climbs into the copper tub where the water is just the right side of too hot. When the heat spreads deliciously through his limbs he leans back and closes his eyes, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure. There's not a sound from Merlin, not even the tiniest rustle; he must be standing stock still.

"I suppose," Arthur says without opening his eyes, "that you could have made _me_ clean with magic too, not just my clothes?"

"Yes," Merlin replies a little huskily, "but I thought you'd want the physical comfort of a hot bath."

"Good thinking," Arthur murmurs, nodding.

"Hey," Merlin says, closer now. "You're not falling asleep in there, are you? I'm not sure it's safe to leave you. I'll help you wash your back, and your hair."

"You're not my manservant," Arthur says. "Why are you doing all this for me anyway - staying up all night to see me through my fever, heating my bath...?"

He opens his eyes to see Merlin kneel beside the tub and dip a cloth into the water.

"Well, like you said, you're not just anyone."

"No," Arthur agrees as he leans forward to expose his back, "but I have a feeling you'd have done this for... well, anyone. Wouldn't you?"

Merlin squeezes out the cloth at the base of Arthur's neck, and Arthur shivers from the wet warmth streaming down his back and a little from Merlin's closeness.

"Yes, I would."

When Merlin has rinsed the soap out of Arthur's hair, Arthur is warm and sleepy and can't resist leaning his wet head against Merlin's chest. It's so soothing, the splash of water, the firelight, the fragrance of herbal soap. He can barely keep his eyes open. _Safe_ , he thinks again. Merlin's hand touches his hair, rests lightly on top of his head for a moment.

"There," he says and pushes Arthur away, gently. "You're clean. Come on, get out of the bath. I need to see to the soup."

He throws Arthur a towel and leaves, and Arthur dries himself, wondering what the thing is about Merlin that he can't put his finger on.

*

The soup is good, hot and filling, and makes Arthur warm all the way to his toes. There's fresh, crusty bread, too, that Merlin chews like a cat with his head to the side. Arthur can't take his eyes off him.

"So we're provided with food," he says to have something to say.

Merlin nods, the tip of his tongue catching crumbs on his lip. "Mm. Apparently she doesn't want us to starve."

Arthur freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "She?"

Merlin sighs, pushing his bowl aside. "Yes. I've been thinking all day and I believe I know who's behind this, even if I don't understand her reasons."

Arthur swallows the last of his soup. "How can you possibly know?"

"I have a confession to make," Merlin says. "While you were asleep today, I tried to deconstruct the magic that's holding us trapped..."

"Oh," Arthur butts in, "so you ask permission to do magic in front of me, but doing it behind my back when I sleep is fine?"

Merlin colours a little. "I only wanted to - I'd never use magic to harm you."

There's really no reason why Arthur should believe him, but he does. He leans his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands and nods at Merlin to go on.

"Anyway, if it makes you feel any better," Merlin says with a glitter in his eyes that makes Arthur's stomach swoop, "by my calculations, this house is positioned exactly on the border with _this_ half of it in Mercia, which means I can legally do magic in the kitchen."

Arthur can't stop a laugh - as if it matters at this point whether the magic is legal or not! "Yeah, that makes me feel so much better." Whatever laws are in place here, they're the laws of a world he doesn't know and doesn't understand. "Anyway," he says, "you tried to deconstruct the magic...?"

"Yes. I tried everything I could think of, every spell I know that could unravel the enchantments, and when that didn't work, anything to vanish the house, break down the doors, blast the windows... " Merlin shrugs and plays with the crumbs on the table, collecting them in a small heap and dragging his finger through it before he looks up. "With the risk of sounding arrogant, there are very few whose magic measures up to mine. Only three that I can think of. One of them has yet to realise her powers, and while both you and I have reason to fear Mordred, I don't think this is his doing. It's too sophisticated. His magic is strong but he's still a child."

"Mordred? I don't know that name. Why would I fear a child?"

For a moment, Merlin's face turns soft and sad. "Because," he says, "Mordred will grow up." He takes a deep breath. "So that leaves Nimueh. She's very old, and she can take on any shape she wants. Her magic is powerful, she disapproves of me and hates you and your father. Knowing Nimueh, I don't think she intends for this to end well. Not for either of us."

Arthur rubs his eyes. All this is so new, there's so much to take in and digest, so much to take a stand on that he almost feels dizzy. "I've never heard of her," he says. "Why does she hate me?"

When Merlin doesn't reply Arthur lifts an eyebrow at him.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says. "That story isn't mine to tell. If your father hasn't told you about his connection with Nimueh, you should ask him about it."

Something like anger begins to stir in Arthur's chest, born of frustration and helplessness. He feels completely out of his depth and he hates it, hates being dependent on others, at their mercy. "How come you know so much about me, things that even _I_ don't know? How do I know you're not making all this up?"

"I don't suppose," Merlin says, "that you remember a man named Gaius?"

The unexpected name startles Arthur out of his anger. "Yes, of course I do. He used to be my father's court physician."

Arthur's happy childhood memories are precious few, and Gaius is linked to nearly every one. Gaius had provided the warm, fatherly presence that Uther had never had. It was to Gaius Arthur had run when he'd hurt himself practising a sword nearly as big as himself, but also for stories or apples or just to be listened to. When he'd had a sore throat, Gaius had come to his chambers with herbal infusions and honey and placed a cool, dry hand on Arthur's forehead...

...and Arthur knows now why the touch of Merlin's fingers had felt so comforting and familiar when he was feverish. It had been the same sense of being looked after, of being in good hands.

"Gaius disappeared when I was seven," Arthur says, his voice a little rough. "I never knew what happened to him. I missed him - still do, sometimes."

"You weren't aware, then," Merlin asks gently, "that Gaius has magic?"

Arthur stares at him, then closes his eyes for a moment and exhales. "I'm beginning to think I don't know _anything_. You've told me so many things today that my head is spinning." He looks at Merlin. "So you're saying that Gaius had magic, and that's why he disappeared from Camelot? Because he couldn't stay?"

"Yes," says Merlin grimly. "I'm saying he's one of the many refugees from your kingdom. There's always been a trickle of refugees across the border, but I assume you're aware that the trickle's become a steady flow since Mercia lifted the ban on magic?"

Arthur clenches his teeth. Yes, he's aware, and it's like a bleeding wound. Uther can be a harsh ruler, and despite Arthur's admiration for his father, he knows he will be a very different sort of king when he takes the throne. The welfare of his people is more important to him than anything, and knowing that so many of his subjects suffer enough to want to leave their homes is like a knife in his guts.

"My father is not a bad man," he says. It sounds painfully like he's trying to convince himself.

"I didn't say he was, only that perhaps he has a blind spot."

Arthur gives Merlin a hard look. "Apart from what I've seen you do here tonight," he says, "the only magic I've come across has been dark - truly dark, designed to hurt or kill. I have no patience with people defending deceit and cruelty."

"Cruelty?" Merlin's palms hit the table and his eyes are blazing. "In Camelot, people are burned at the stake without a trial on the mere suspicion of magic."

Arthur flinches, remembering flames rising high in the courtyard, remembering the stench and the screams.

"I don't," he says and needs to clear his throat, "I don't condone or defend every act committed against magic users in Camelot. Everyone should have a fair trial, regardless of who they are or what they've done."

Merlin is looking at him, his eyes slowly returning to their usual blue. "One day, Arthur Pendragon," he says, "you'll be a great king. One whose people will always remain by his side." Before Arthur can reply, Merlin continues: "I came to Mercia as a refugee, too - from Escetia. Ealdor, my village, was very poor and suffered cruelly under Cenred. When I was ten and my magic had established itself, my mother fled with me to Mercia. We travelled on foot, through the woods at night." He pauses; his face is strained. These memories are still hard to talk about. "In Mercia we met Gaius, who took us under his wing and made me his apprentice, and he told me a great many things about you. In spite of everything, he still holds your father in high regard and hasn't stopped hoping he'd change his mind about magic."

Arthur watches Merlin's finger rub along the grain of the table and tries to imagine his life in a poor Escetian village, the flight across the border, the fear of Cenred's men.

"Is Gaius alive, then?" he asks.

"Oh, yes," Merlin says and looks up with a smile, and that's the best news Arthur's had in a long time.

The soup and the warm kitchen and all this new, unexpected information makes him so tired his vision blurs. "I'm going back to bed," he says. "I want to hear about this Nimueh but I can't keep my eyes open."

In the doorway he stops and turns. "Merlin, I have to ask you - did you cure my fever with magic?"

"Honestly, Arthur," Merlin says, getting up and collecting their soup bowls. "If you'd known anything at all about herbs, you'd know there's no cure to a fever induced by devil's blackthorn - not in Camelot, that is. In Mercia, however..."

Arthur opens his mouth to speak but ends up letting out a frustrated breath and shaking his head. He can't berate a man for saving his life, by whatever means. _Tomorrow,_ he thinks, exhausted. _I'll deal with all this tomorrow._

*

_The courtyard at Camelot is packed with people gathering around a pile of wood, where the executioner in his black hood is tying a man to the stake. Next to Arthur a woman spits on the cobblestones, her face twisted with hatred._

_"Sorcerer!" she hisses. "Your kind deserves to die."_

_The executioner steps down and Arthur's throat goes dry: the man at the stake is Merlin. His eyes are wide with terror as they meet Arthur's, his lips forming the word_ please _. The fire leaps cruelly to life. When the flames lick along Merlin's body, catching on his clothes, Merlin throws his head back and screams..._

Arthur wakes drenched with sweat, gasping and clutching at his throat, still with the stench of burning in his nostrils.

*

"I need to ask you a favour," Merlin says at breakfast.

Outside, the fog is as impenetrable as ever, opaquely white. Arthur glances at Merlin and remembers his tortured face framed by fire.

"What kind of favour?"

"I was wondering if I could use your sword."

Arthur almost chokes on his mouthful of bread. "What for? Are you going to magically chop the fog to pieces?"

He loves it when Merlin's dimples show. The last shadows of the nightmare disperse and he can't stop his own smile.

"I'd like to use it as a mirror. Not to shave," Merlin says and laughs when Arthur draws a breath to point out _but your face won't fit_ , "but for scrying. Do you know anything about scrying?"

"Merlin," Arthur says, out of his depth again and slightly annoyed, "you can safely assume I don't know anything about magic. It's prohibited in Camelot, in case that slipped your mind, and we don't discuss the subject any more than we have to."

"It's a way of seeing things using a medium," Merlin explains. "You can do it in different ways and for different purposes. Not everyone with magical abilities can do it, though. My own strength is using crystals to see the future, but I can see the present with the help of a reflective object if I put my mind to it. And I'd like to know what's going on in our kingdoms, at our courts, to get some idea of what Nimueh is after. I'm convinced this is all her doing. She knows me, she'd know I'd want to try this, and she's seen to it that there isn't a single reflective object in the house. Have you noticed?"

"Yes," Arthur says, scratching at the itchy stubble on his chin with his fingernails.

A smile flashes across Merlin's face to be replaced with a frown, like a cloud covering the sun. "Some people can use a bowl of water for scrying."

"Well, we do have water," Arthur says. "That barrel seems to refill itself."

"Yes, but Nimueh... Nimueh knows I'm useless at hydromancy."

A slow blush spreads over Merlin's face and neck at this admission, and Arthur watches him in amazement. _Our worlds are so different,_ he thinks. Perhaps it's an embarrassment to sorcerers not to master certain kinds of magic; perhaps not being able to see visions in a bowl of water is a shortcoming. Arthur has no idea about rules and conventions in Merlin's world, or even about basic, underlying facts.

"Swords can be powerful media," Merlin says, "so I thought I'd ask to use yours."

Arthur nods slowly. "Can you share your visions?" he asks. "I mean, can I get to see what you see? Can you make it visible to me?"

Merlin looks surprised. "I've never done that, but I could try."

Arthur hesitates for the length of two heartbeats. Then he fetches his sword. He doesn't place it before Merlin immediately but remains standing, holding it in his hands, still in its sheath.

"Don't like handing over your sword?" Merlin's blush has receded and he sounds impertinent.

Arthur laughs although it isn't funny. "I don't think you're any more of a danger to me with a sword than without," he says. "And I don't believe it makes much difference for my safety if I'm armed or unarmed."

"Armed, you can cut my throat in my sleep." Merlin gives Arthur an unreadable look. "But you'd never do that."

"You don't know that."

Merlin only smiles in reply. When he holds out his hands, Arthur places the sword carefully across his palms.

With the sword laid out before them, Merlin focuses on the reflective surface and Arthur divides his attention between the sorcerer and the sword. The dull light plays over Merlin's hair and profile, catches on the tips of his eyelashes and gleams on the polished blade. Arthur forces himself to keep still although he's bursting with questions - he mustn't interrupt and break Merlin's concentration. Like a child, he wants to ask, _What do you see? Tell me, tell me._

Perhaps Merlin can sense Arthur's impatience because he lifts his hand, palm out, like wiping mist from an invisible mirror. An image appears in the air, luminously colourful and semi-transparent like a stained-glass window: the King's hall at Camelot. Uther is seated at the table, deep in discussion with his men, agitated, eyes flashing, leaning forward to dismiss or contradict something Bedivere is saying. The image fades, replaced by another that echoes the scene at the court of Camelot: Lord Bayard at council with his men.

Merlin lowers his hand and the image disperses.

"There," he says. "You've seen what I've seen. I'm sorry I can't figure out how to let you hear their voices. Both courts have sent out search parties, but they're unsure of the next step."

Arthur nods slowly, biting his lip. He knows he should try to anticipate the actions of his father and Bayard, but right now there's something else on his mind.

"Merlin," he says. "How does it work, the scrying? Can you see anything or anyone you want?"

"It's always connected to people, or one person. You can't see just anyone - it has to be someone you know or at least met. The better you know them, the stronger the image."

"I was wondering..." Arthur swallows. "I was wondering if you could... if you would show me... if I could see Gaius."

"Oh," Merlin says, surprised. "Yes, of course. I can do that."

His hand hovers over the sword, once again making it glow softly, and when the image appears in the air before them, Arthur needs to swallow a lump in his throat.

Gaius is slightly stooped but otherwise looks much the same, pottering about in a room that is very familiar to Arthur. It's smaller than his chambers at Camelot but filled with bottles and jars, books and bundles of dried herbs just the way Arthur remembers. He watches as Gaius pours a measure of oil into a mortar, adds a pinch of some powder and a few seed pods and grinds everything together with the pestle, frowning and muttering to himself. A raven descends from the ceiling in a flash of dark wings and settles on his shoulder; Gaius tuts and shakes his head.

When the image fades, Arthur is smiling although his chest aches.

"Thank you," he mumbles and quickly removes himself from the kitchen.

In the parlour he stands by the window, staring out at the dense wall of fog while he blinks the moisture from his eyes. He is moved as much by Merlin's kindness as by the sight of Gaius, thankfully, improbably alive and well after all these years.

*

The visions from the outside world, the _real_ world, leave Arthur restless and impatient. He paces the cottage like a caged animal, unable to sit down or focus. Merlin is in the parlour with a thick book, completely absorbed and focused. Arthur's sheathed sword is on the table before him.

When Arthur feels like he's about to burst, he snatches up the sword, unsheaths it and whips around to take a swing at the window. The blade hits the glass with a noise that sets his teeth on edge and sends a painful jolt up his arm, but the window remains intact.

Over by the table, Merlin looks up from the book to raise an eyebrow at the furiously cursing Arthur. "Remember what I said about needing cool heads, not muscle or sword?"

Muttering, Arthur sheaths the sword and throws it back on the table. "I need exercise," he says and begins to shove furniture out of the way to clear floor space.

A good while later he's worked through all muscle groups and finished with a sword fight against an invisible partner. The irritation has been chased out of his body and he's dripping with sweat, tired and satisfied. When he picks up his discarded tunic from the floor and wipes his face and neck with it, he finds Merlin staring at him from across the room. At his querying look Merlin flushes and looks down, and Arthur's own face goes hot for no reason.

He clears his throat. "I'm afraid I'll need your help again, Merlin."

"You know," Merlin says, still a little flushed, "for someone who's opposed to magic, you're making frequent use of it."

Arthur can't help grinning. "Well, it's handy."

Merlin makes a face at him. "What is it you need?"

"Clean clothes. And hot water for a bath."

"You must keep your servants very busy back at Camelot. See how much easier things would run with magic?"

Arthur throws the sweaty shirt at him. "Bath," he says.

*

It bothers him, how much he enjoys watching Merlin perform magic. He should be appalled, revolted, and instead his breath catches in his throat. Merlin makes magic beautiful.

Something has shifted between them. The air is heavy, like something important is about to happen. Apart from Merlin's whispered spells they don't speak, both of them moving carefully as if it's a ritual demanding reverence. When Arthur's undressed he climbs into the bath, watching the water as it stills around him, his knees breaking the surface like pale twin isles. Behind him Merlin is moving about quietly, but Arthur doesn't turn to look at him. He sits with his head bent until Merlin kneels by his side and dips a cloth into the water, a repeat of yesterday and still entirely different. Out of the corner he sees Merlin's hand and bare forearm, the black sleeve rolled up above the elbow.

Arthur leans forward and closes his eyes as the warm, wet cloth is pressed softly to the nape of his neck. Merlin washes his back gently, the cloth moving in slow, methodical circles from the shoulders down. Goosebumps spring up along Arthur's arms and chest, his nipples tighten and his teeth catch his bottom lip. He can feel Merlin's breath on his neck as if Merlin's mouth is a mere finger's breadth from his skin, and suddenly all Arthur can think about is how he wants Merlin to close the distance and lean in that last bit. He grips his knees and squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming fast. He is so hard it almost hurts, curling in on himself to hide it. When the cloth in Merlin's hand reaches the small of Arthur's back and stops, Arthur makes a sound that is embarrassingly close to a moan.

Without moving or opening his eyes, he swallows and clears his throat. "Thank you, Merlin. You can leave now." As if Merlin were a servant.

Merlin drops the cloth into the water and quietly leaves the room, and Arthur grinds his teeth. He stands up abruptly and nearly trips over the edge of the tub in his haste to get out of the water, leans his forehead on his wet arm against the wall and closes his other hand around his cock. Images of Merlin flash before his eyes as he works himself furiously, the arc of Merlin's white neck and the full lips parted, his eyelashes smudged dark against his cheek as he bucks under Arthur's weight and comes... Arthur screws his eyes shut and bites down on his arm as he paints the wall with milky strings of come.

With closed eyes and shaking knees he leans on the wall until he's recovered. He wipes the wall clean with the cloth and tosses it back into the tub before pulling on the nightshirt that Merlin's found in a cupboard. Still a bit shaky, he takes a deep breath and opens the door to the kitchen. His face is hot but he can blame the bath.

Merlin's in the kitchen with his back turned, mixing something in a bowl. Arthur stares at the back of his neck, at the vulnerable white skin above the neckline of his tunic and the way his hair grows upward from the sides and meets in a downward point, and wants to put his tongue there.

Something inside him begins to fall from a height.

Shuddering with an emotion he can't even name, he pads on bare feet to his bedroom, shuts the door and lies staring at the ceiling until the fire goes out.

He's never seen darkness like this before. At Camelot, the castle corridors are lit by torches through the night, edging his chamber door with gold when his candle is blown out, and if he looks out the window he'll see the scattered lights of the town. Even out hunting, the nights are never dark like this - there are stars and moon and embers. Here, the darkness is absolute. It's like they're sailing on an ink-black, shoreless sea. Perhaps they've stepped outside of time. Perhaps they are dead but not yet crossed over into eternity, waiting for something to release them.

It's a long time before Arthur sleeps.

*

When he wakes up it's morning, and he finds his clothes clean and neatly folded over the back of a chair.

Merlin is at the kitchen table with a steaming beaker in front of him, dipping a spoon into the honey pot as Arthur enters. He nods a good morning and puts the spoon in his mouth, turning his eyes to the window and the unchanging whiteness.

In an instant Arthur is returned to the state of last night, staring at Merlin's lips around the spoon. He wants to yank it out of Merlin's hand and take its place, kiss him deeply and lick the honey from his tongue... Merlin turns his head and starts when he meets Arthur's eyes. _I must look as if I'm about to pounce,_ Arthur thinks, and he is, very nearly.

He bows his head and focuses on bread and cheese and apples. It's a good while before he dares to look up again. Something has changed about Merlin's face since yesterday, he notices, and halfway through an apple, he realises what it is.

"Oh," he says, still chewing, "you've shaved. Did you use magic?"

Merlin gives Arthur a look like he seriously doubts his intelligence. "It's hard to shave without either razor _or_ magic."

"Um, could you...?" Arthur says, swallowing the last of his apple and waving a hand over his own stubble. "It itches."

"I can," Merlin says a little hesitantly, "but I'll have to touch your face."

The apple is gone but Arthur needs to swallow again. Merlin gets up and gestures for Arthur to do the same; they stand face to face looking into each other's eyes. Merlin's are very blue in the grey light and his pupils are dilated.

Inside Arthur, the thing is still falling.

Merlin's eyes glow and a string of whispered, unintelligible words spill over his lips as his fingertips meet Arthur's cheekbone and slide down, following the jawline to the chin. Arthur stares into Merlin's gold-ringed eyes, mesmerised, and tries not to shiver. When Merlin's warm fingertips move over Arthur's chin and nudge the edge of his bottom lip, Arthur draws a breath and closes his eyes. He wants to catch Merlin's fingers in his mouth and run his tongue around them, suck on them until Merlin moans.

When Merlin's fingertip runs along Arthur's upper lip, Arthur is achingly hard. He opens his eyes. The glow of magic is gone and Merlin removes his hand. His gaze drops, and there's nothing Arthur can do to hide what's happening to him.

“Oh,” Merlin says.

Arthur's cheeks flood with heat and he turns away, mortified. “Sorry,” he mutters, “it's only... I'll just...”

Merlin's fingers slip around his wrist. “Please don't go. Look at me.”

Arthur's face is burning, but he lifts his eyes and finds his own desire mirrored. It should be so wrong, but nothing in his life has ever felt this right. Merlin's hand is warm as it slides down to cover the hard ridge of Arthur's cock, and Arthur pushes into the touch, angling his chin for a kiss.

*

They're lying in Arthur's rumpled bed with Merlin's head sleepily cushioned on Arthur's shoulder and Arthur's cheek against Merlin's hair.

"I had to be on that delegation to Camelot," Merlin murmurs. "I had to see you in the flesh."

"In the flesh?"

Merlin raises himself on an elbow and looks down at Arthur, drawing figures on his chest with a fingertip. Arthur's hand looks large and rough and weather-beaten against the pallor of Merlin's arm.

"My crystals had shown me your face," Merlin says. "They showed me who you were, what you would be."

His eyes are shining, as if he's waited a long time to say this. "When I saw you at Camelot, I already knew I would love you."

 _Love?_ Arthur looks at him in wonder.

The thing that fell inside him lands, feather-soft.

*

It's new to Arthur, this sense of belonging. Something has unlocked in him to reveal a space previously unknown, and perhaps a corresponding space has been unlocked in Merlin. Gates open to let emotion flow freely, back and forth between them until giving and receiving can't be told apart.

*

"Why is Nimueh displeased with you?" Arthur asks at the kitchen table, watching Merlin crack eggs into a pan. "And can't you use your magic for cooking?"

Merlin throws him a grin over his shoulder. "Yes, but I like doing it without magic. I like feeling it under my hands."

"Nimueh is disappointed in me," he says later in reply to Arthur's first question. "She wants magic back in the five kingdoms; she wants to see the old religion return."

"Isn't that what you want?"

Merlin looks at him. "Not like that. To have a future, magic and non-magic people will have to exist side by side. We must learn to live alongside one another and benefit from each other's strengths."

His words make Arthur stumble onto the answer to one of his own, old questions. "It's you, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"You are holding Bayard back. For two years now, I've wondered why we haven't found ourselves under siege. There's no doubt Mercia could take us with very little fight, and we've lived in fear ever since we heard that Bayard appointed a court sorcerer. But _you_ , the sorcerer, are the reason we haven't been attacked."

Merlin's eyes are soft. "I have advised Bayard against it, yes. I've told him he must have patience. We will never achieve unity by force. It needs to be done with peaceful means, and he has learned to trust me. The crystals have told me what I needed to see."

Arthur finds his mouth is half open. "And what did you see?"

"That Lord Bayard will not be the one who brings about peace," Merlin says. "But I haven't told _him_ that. Not yet."

"So - who will?"

Merlin doesn't reply. He dips his chin and glances sideways at Arthur with a near-smile, as if he knows a great secret.

For a moment everything stops, and Arthur draws a breath as he sees the implications of Merlin's silence. Perhaps the process has already begun; perhaps it did long before he met Merlin. And now - unthinkable only two days ago - a life without magic, a life without Merlin, seems unbearably colourless and bleak. A future without a future.

"Does what you see always come true?" he asks shakily.

"Always," Merlin replies and adds: "But not always in the way I expect."

Suddenly Arthur is laughing. "Merlin, if you can see the future - why didn't you see _this_?" He waves a hand at the kitchen. "Couldn't your crystals tell you how to get out?"

"I can't decide what to see, you clotpole," Merlin says and throws his apple peel at Arthur. "I only see what the crystals choose to show me. Speaking of which, I need your sword again."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"You're going to be insufferable, aren't you?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

Merlin thwaps him over the head. "I want to see what's happening back home."

The sword is brought and Arthur watches Merlin lean over the blade. The image in the air between them shows Uther on horseback with a good number of the Knights of Camelot, and then Bayard riding out of his courtyard flanked by blue-clad men.

"The kings are riding," Merlin says. "That's an unusual sight - search parties headed by kings. There's something very, very strange going on here."

*

In bed that night, wedged in with Merlin's left shoulder pressed against Arthur's right, Merlin lifts his hand and blows a breath along his fingers as if he's blowing a kiss into the room. In the near-dark, a shower of sparks come dancing from the fireplace and shape themselves into a dragon in front of them.

Arthur watches in amazement and Merlin beams, looking very pleased with himself. When Arthur leans over to kiss him, a small part of him wishes they could stay here and never leave.

*

In the morning, the light looks different. Something has changed.

The same moment Arthur hears the faint sound, he feels Merlin tense beside him: it's the whisper of wind, the first sound they've heard from outside since they came here. They both sit up in bed. The fog is swirling and Arthur strains his eyes to get a glimpse of something, anything, through the wisps and swathes of it. Merlin seems to be listening as much to something inside himself as to the noise of the wind.

"She's excited," he says slowly. "Nimueh is excited. Something is about to happen."

Arthur runs his fingertips from the base of Merlin's neck to his shoulder. "Can you tell what it is?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No, and I can't think what it might be... unless - " And then something seems to dawn on him. "Oh, god. Arthur, I think I know. I think I _do_ know what it is. Your father and Lord Bayard are on their way here. She's going to lead them here - probably more subtly than she did us, but she will lead them."

There's a cold knot of fear at the pit of Arthur's stomach. "Why? What's going to happen?"

"Arthur, don't you see? Nimueh meant for this to happen, I mean _this_ , with us." Merlin gestures between them, their nakedness, the bruises he's sucked to life on Arthur's chest. "She wants for them to see us here, like this. Your father will find you in bed with another man, a _sorcerer_ , and Bayard arriving will only make things worse. Uther will think Bayard is behind it. Don't you see? We'll have war upon us in an instant. Bayard will believe this is Uther scheming, that you are a spy. There will be instant chaos, Arthur; exactly what Nimueh wants. She means for us all to die, and then she can take over without anyone ever knowing it was her doing. It all fits, don't you see?" Merlin scrambles out of bed and begins to pull on his clothes. His hair is on end, his eyes are wild. "We have to stop her, Arthur. We can't let this happen. Come on, they're still about half a day's ride from here - we need to find out how to break her spells."

Merlin's urgency makes Arthur scramble out of bed. "Will you be able to break them? You said you'd tried everything."

"It will be easier now," Merlin says grimly as he pulls on his boots. "I have a new angle; I know what her intentions are. I can unravel her spells if I can find a weakness in them, and now that I know the core, I'll know where to start."

There's nothing for Arthur to do but to watch Merlin's frantic work. He stands by the wall watching Merlin's eyes blaze as colours flash and wood splinters; he feels the floor shake and the walls tremble, awed and a little frightened at the power contained in Merlin's thin frame.

It seems to go on forever. Arthur's shirt is damp with nervous sweat. When he goes to splash cold water on his face, his hands are unsteady. A shout from Merlin sends him running back.

"What happened?"

"I found it," Merlin says, panting and shaking, his hair plastered to his forehead. "I broke it. I think I was so angry it gave me the strength I needed."

"Are you okay?"

Merlin waves the question aside. "We need to leave at once."

He helps Arthur with the armour and kisses his chin as he fastens the clasp of the red cloak.

"Merlin," Arthur says, "will you have to face Nimueh?"

"She'll be very angry," Merlin says, "but don't worry, I won't let her harm you."

"I'm not concerned about _me_ , you idiot!"

There's a small, grim smile on Merlin's face. "I'll give her a match." He looks at Arthur. "Well, then. This is it. Are you ready to face the world?"

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Yes."

Merlin opens the door and they tumble out on the doorstep, stopping to fill their lungs with sweet, fresh air.

The fog is gone. They can see softly rolling hills and dark clumps of trees, and the mountains in the distance, cold and blue.

"We must go," Merlin says.

"Merlin, wait." Arthur's hand scrabbles for purchase in the folds of the blue velvet cloak; he twists his fingers into the material and pulls. He knows they have to leave but he can't bear for them to part. "It could be years before I see you again," he says. "I can't... I don't want to wait years."

He hopes his eyes convey the plea he can't quite get over his lips.

Merlin smiles and leans in until they're chest to chest and his mouth is at Arthur's ear. "On a brightly moonlit night, watch for a bird of prey."

"A bird of prey?" Arthur's hands rub over Merlin's arms as if to fight the cold; his lips find Merlin's jaw. "What kind?"

Merlin pulls back. His laugh makes his eyes crinkle and tugs at Arthur's heart. "I'd have thought you could figure that out." He leans in to press a quick, close-lipped kiss to Arthur's mouth. "Now, hurry, before they find us together! North is that way; you want to go up the slope. Quickly, before the search parties reach the border - go and greet your King!"

Then he's gone with a whirl of his cloak, gone in the other direction. Arthur fights down the hollow feeling in his chest, sets his jaw and starts out along the path. When he turns around to take one last look at the house, it's vanished. There's only a glimpse of blue disappearing among the trees across the meadow.

Arthur follows the grass path that climbs uphill, east and north, and on the fringes of the forest he meets the search party. His father is riding up front, flanked by Leon and Bedivere, and Arthur will never forget the look on their faces when they catch sight of him. All the men cheer, Leon beams like only Leon can, but Uther's face _crumples_. He throws the reins to Leon, dismounts and pulls Arthur to him so hard their pauldrons clash, and Arthur feels his father's whole body tremble. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend he isn't clinging to Uther and the feeling of being loved, the love Uther so rarely shows. Even Hengroen seems happy to see Arthur, nudging him with a velvet nose and blowing warm air down his neck.

It's a joyous journey back, with Leon leaning over now and then to pat Arthur's back and Uther turning his head to look at Arthur as if he can't quite believe his son is there, alive and unharmed.

When they set up camp for the night, Arthur volunteers to take the first watch with Leon. They sit side by side as the murmurs and laughs of the men fade out, replaced by snores. The fire burns low and steady, the stars are jewel bright, and somewhere among the trees an owl hoots. Arthur takes a deep breath. He's glad to be out under open skies, glad to be where clouds drift and dry leaves rustle in the breeze. Here, he is free. Here, he belongs.

Leon leans back on his elbows.

"The moon is very bright tonight," he says and yawns.

"Yes," Arthur replies slowly, looking up at the white, radiant sphere. The memory of Merlin's face dances before his eyes, Merlin's words are like a whisper in his ears. "Yes, isn't it quite unusually bright?"

He picks up a stick and pokes aimlessly the ground by his feet, bowing his head to hide his smile from Leon.


End file.
